the
advantages of this decease, which reduced the number of the heirs from
seven to six, were entirely lost. To what purpose would be this death,
if the other members of the family, dispersed and persecuted with such
infernal perseverance, were to unite and discover the enemies who had
so long aimed at them in darkness? If all those wounded hearts were to
console, enlighten, support each other, their cause would be gained, and
the inheritance rescued from the reverend fathers. What was to be done?

Strange power of the human will!--Rodin had one foot in the grave, he
was almost at the last gasp; his voice had failed him. And yet that
obstinate nature, so full of energy and resources, did not despair.
Let but a miracle restore his health, and that firm confidence in the
success of his projects which has given him power to struggle against
disease, tells him that he could yet save all--but then he must have
health and life! Health! life! His physician does not know if he will
survive the shock--if he can bear the pain--of a terrible operation.
Health! life! and just now Rodin heard talk of the solemn funeral they
had prepared for him. And yet--health, life, he will have them. Yes; he
has willed to live--and he has lived--why should he not live longer? He
will live--because he has willed it.

All that we have just written passed though Rodin's mind in a second.
His features, convulsed by the mental torment he endured, must have
assumed a very strange expression, for Father d'Aigrigny and the
cardinal looked at him in silent consternation. Once resolved to live,
and to sustain a desperate struggle with the Rennepont family, Rodin
acted in consequence. For a few moments Father d'Aigrigny and the
prelate believed themselves under the influence of a dream. By an effort
of unparalleled energy, and as if moved by hidden mechanism, Rodin
sprang from the bed, dragging the sheet with him, and trailing it, like
a shroud, behind his livid and fleshless body. The room was cold; the
face of the Jesuit was bathed in sweat; his naked and bony feet left
their moist print upon the stones.

"What are you doing? It is death!" cried Father d'Aigrigny, rushing
towards Rodin, to force him to lie down again.

But the latter, extending one of his skeleton arms, as hard as iron,
pushed aside Father d'Aigrigny with inconceivable vigor, considering the
state of exhaustion in which he had so long been.

"He has the strength of a man in a fit of